The Forgotten is a dark humor story written by Zeon1. It takes place during a future event of Project Freelancer: Rebirth.

There is a new agent, but he's not so new. Who is the forgotten Agent Oklahoma, and what does he want with his former fellow agents in the Project. A dark story of revenge unfolds here!


  • Oklahoma
  • Sandra Chase- Project Freelancer's official tech officer, her main job is to test out the functions of Idaho's suit.
  • Agent California
  • Wyoming
  • Arkansas
  • The Director
  • The Counselor
  • Carolina (Pwn)

Prologue: You Can't HideEdit

The Director of Project Freelancer opened his lips only slightly, allowing his hand to gently tug the cigar out of his jaw's feroucous grip. The Director had crew-cut style hair, black, and a beard of the same color that seemed hell-bent on grasping his jaw till the end of time.

"Director," said a calm faced man, standing completely still in the corner. If his chest wasn't rising or falling, he could easily have been mistaken for an android. The Director let a breath slowly leave his chest, his eyes travelling slowly toward the Counselor.

"Yes, old friend?" he asked, staring straight at the Counselor.

"About this new recruit, sir."



"Spit it out, Jason. Silence is unbecoming of you."

"It has only been two week since the first Connecticut was killed in battle."


"I'm not sure if they're ready for a replacement so soon."

"Even if I give them time to mourn, Jason, the wounds will reopen, fresher than ever. No, it's better this way."

"But, why?"

The faint traces of a scowl appeared on the Director, and he pulled himself forward. The Counselor (Jason), squirmed against the wall.

"Why? Because the Nexxus requires fuel. What a better canidate, then one who is already heavily bonded with is armor? What a better canidate, I ask? What a better canidate?!"

"I... I see sir."

"Then we bring him tommorow. No matter what he says."

Chapter 1: The Patient, The Murderer, and The RookieEdit

An unknown mental hospital, on the Planet Harvest.

Dr. Claddeus James walked down the hallway of the Asylum, his recently polished shoes making click-clack noises as he strood proudly down the hallway that he had been pacing along for hours.

A curious patient, he thought, a part of some military experiment. I wonder if-

Suddenly, the patient in question raised a hand, knocking slowly on the door of his cell. Dr. James turned sharply around, staring at it. Something close to fear slithered across his face. "Yes?" he asked, almost taking a step back, but resisted the motion.

"Doctor," came a slithery, almost raspy voice, "I'm cured."

Dr. James raised one eyebrow, staring through his fake, lenseless glasses at the door. "I'll decide when you're ready, Jonah."

Hacking laughter erupted from behind the door. "Who ever said it was your decision?"

"The UNSC, specifically, a group of fellows calling themselves the Promethians."

"Well, dear Dr. James, sorry to disappoint you, but I am not under the juristiction of the UNSC. Goodbye."

"Goodby-" Dr. James gasped as the door flew open. Before he could move, nay, before he could blink, a figure dashed by him, stopping right behind him. The figure held two knives, his arms crossed. The figure wore scale-like armor, with a red camo design with tan underneath. A small plate covered his mouth, and a single strip of eyepiece allowed him to see.

Dr. James's shoulders split open, spilling possibly gallons of blood into the open air. His mouth opening, he toppled backward, his eyes rolling up into his head. In moments, he was dead, blood pooling at the feet of his killer, who paused, sheathing his knives.

"I was NEVER the only one," he muttered, "I'm coming for you, Daniel. The House isn't done with us. Not yet."

He then disappeared.


"I'm sure you're... aware, of the ramifactions of this procedure if it fails," said the Director, staring across the table at the armored Freelancer who sat opposite.

"I knew the risks when I signed up, Director," said the Freelancer, a grin beneath his CQB armor the only telltale feature that could be noticed.

"Excellent, Agent Oklahoma. You'll be a good soldier, I believe," the Direcor said, taking anther puff of his cigar. "And, if it does fail, you will be killed."

"I have nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Church," Oak replied, grinning slightly, "not from you."



Oak writhed on the operating table the surgeons had locked him too. His arms pinwheeled, trying to break free of the containment field that held him captive. His legs lashed out, but were knocked back by the field.

"We're losing him," yelled one of the surgeons, hurredly wiping some sweat off his brow, "his mind can't handle the strain!"

"HRRAAAAAHHHH!" Oak cried, his arms flinging outward, smashing a hole in the field. His hands shot out, gripping a poor doctor's throat, crushing it easily. The other surgeons quickly suffered a similar fate.

Oak stood in the blood of his victims, shuddering painfuly. He panted, struggling to breathe. "I know what you did, Director. And I'm coming for you."

Chapter 2: The Other Side of the MirrorEdit




A former associate of the Program has reemerged. We believe that he plans to

destroy anything and everything to do with the Director.

UNSC intelligence points his location to

the city of Old Mombasa,

within five miles of the Project's main research.

You are requested

to Intercept & Contain,

killing is optional but not tolerated.

Thank you.

Idaho stared at the fax in his hand, then leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Son of a..." he muttered. Just five weeks after he had finished hunting down escaped rebel generals, he was assigned to ANOTHER mission. It was getting to him.

The agent wearing aqua and blue Recon armor lifted his helmet, exposing hazel eyes, military-style hair with an obvious cowlick in the back, and a slim but hard jaw. A rather large scar started at his neck, descending until it disappeared into the neckline of his suit.

Well, nothing to do about it. Might as well get it over with. Idaho stood up, twisting slightly, and towards the door of his room. He had five minutes. Might as well use them.

From the door next to his, a door popped open, and a white-helmeted Mark VI soldier poked his head out. When he spoke, his voice carried the tint of a German accent. "Got a mission?"

"What else?" Idaho responded, grinning slightly, "just five weeks after the last one, too."

"Well, we're not all lucky," the white soldier replied, "and remember, just com me any time you want some humor."

"Okay, don't call you for humor."

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

"See ya, Wyoming."

Idaho walked down the hallway, grinning slightly. In the few months since he had joined the program, he and Wyoming had become somewhat friends, at least when drinks and bad humor were concerned.

Several minutes later, he arrived at a door that said simply, "ARMORY." Knocking gently, he opened the door without hesitation. A female Freelancer, wearing simple default armor, aimed down the sights of an altered pistol. She pulled the trigger, unleashing a hail of bullets, which circled around a small target, a la a hailstorm.

"Neat weapon," Idaho said, walking up beside her, and staring out at it. Agent Hawaii only acknowledged Idaho with a nod, getting a sigh out of him. Thier on-and-off relationship had only started a few weeks ago, and Idaho still wasn't sure were they stood. Her dislike of communication in general didn't help. At all.

"Got the orders."


"So... gonna wish me good luck?"


"Well, umm... bye then." Idaho finished, turning and walking towards the door. Right as he began to turn around completely, however, Hawaii made a quick, fleeting motion with her fingers. While Idaho was not fluent in sign language, he read this phrase carefully.

'Don't die.'

"I won't... hopefully," he said, ducking out of the door.

The city of Old Mombassa looked like a warzone. That Idaho could discern from the Hornet. Buildings leaned over, like boxers before the climactic kneel to the mat. The pavement was cracked, in some cases absent completely, or split neatly in half. Tanks lined the streets, as well as blockade lines and small depots. Nothing too new.

Idaho's Hornet dipped down in front of a large building that once might have been used for some sort of buisness. That is, until it was leveled, floor by floor.

Idaho leaped out of the Hornet, landing with a small crunch on broken glass and the like, as a small group of soldiers rushed over to him.

"You da Freelancer?" asked the leader of the soldiers, who's name Idaho's helmet identified as Sergeant Charlie.

"Yes. What's the situation?" Idaho asked, looking up at the building.

"We chased dat guy through da city, but he managed to get in da building," Charlie said, gesturing, his accent a mix of the Bronx and Standard.

"Looks like he blew his way in," Idaho said, thoughtfully, "tell all your men to back off. This might get a bit messy."

With that, he jogged inside the building.

It was a mess in the place. Bits of plywood, ceiling, and plaster littered the floors. What once may have been a receptionist's desk was crushed by a large boulder. Idaho whistled slightly, slowly looking around. He didn't see any- there.

A man darted out from cover, firing from two SMGs as he ran. Idaho leaped backward, his armor causing sparks to fly as he slid behind a bit of cover. Unclipping his Battle Rifle from it's slot in his back, Idaho leaned out from behind the wall, preparing to fire.

Only the man wasn't there.

Suddenly, the man appeared right next to Idaho, leveling a shotgun at his chest. BOOM. Idaho's ears popped as the slug slammed into his armor. His shield popped and fizzled, sending him flying through the air. However, since his cover was near a wall, Idaho went through it, crashing into a reception hall.

The CQB wearing soldier lunged through the hole, reaching out for Idaho's throat. Idaho's arm shot out, grabbing the soldier by the throat. The soldier responded by reaching up, gripping Idaho's arm, and twisting it. A sickening crack filled the room, as Idaho's arm shattered.

The soldier let go, as the arm dropped uselessly to the Freelancer's side. Idaho raised his Battle Rifle, but the soldier gripped the barrel, bending it downward. He lashed out with a punch, sending Idaho skidding across the floor. Idaho twisted, stopping himself at the last moment.

The soldier landed on his ribs, shattering almost every single one. Idaho let out a choked gargle, and flipped open a grenade, slamming it at the soldier, who gripped his arm too late.

A large explosion enveloped both of them.

Chapter 3: Evening the Playing FieldEdit


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